Efram finished writing the letter and showed it to Batya. “Your handwriting looks so beautiful,” she purred, her hand on the inside of his thigh, moving upward. “You must be the best Talmudic scholar in your yeshiva.” She bent over his chair and rubbed her breasts against his sunken chest. “It’s been a while since you spoke Spanish to me. Tell me what you want me to do to your body.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and his face flushed when the bulge in his trousers grew. She buried her face in his neck, enjoying the fresh smell of his skin, unsullied by tobacco or alcohol.

She loved the closeness after lovemaking, which happened with only a few of her regulars. The glow of Efram’s satisfaction was combined with the gratefulness he showed her. But she couldn’t bask in it now. She couldn’t even linger in the luxury of the bathtub in the white-tiled room, the second such bath in her life. Her letter in her pocket, Batya left Efram’s home. She must figure out how to mail it from a post agent not under the control of Zwi Migdal—surely not one in the center of Buenos Aires.

Within moments outside, in the humidity of this midday hour, perspiration formed on Batya’s upper lip and underarms. She was ready for that chilled almond drink.

As she started across the street, she noticed a commotion around the sweets seller’s cart. Four teenagers were stealing from him in broad daylight, and rather than fleeing with their loot, they taunted him—hopping around him, shoving fistfuls of his sweets into their mouths. Red-faced, his moustache trembling, the man begged them to leave him alone. He didn’t shout or raise a club to fight them off. He cried and pleaded with his tormentors.

The man’s powerlessness pulsated under Batya’s skin. In her mind’s eye she saw her father’s goods stolen by cruel goyim who had ordered cheese, buttermilk, and cream but, when he delivered, sent him away with no pay. She saw the czar’s soldiers confiscating all the butter she and her mother and sisters had churned for hours.

Passersby had stopped to watch, leering, enjoying the scene. Without thinking, Batya rushed into the fray. She swung her arms, slapping, shoving, punching. When a boy turned to her, astonishment on his face, she raised her knee into his groin. He fell to the ground clutching his private parts while his friends fled.

Some spectators clapped; others, aware of her status, shouted lewd remarks. Blood rushed to Batya’s face at her public humiliation. She gathered her courage to ignore them. “I’ll have the almond drink, please,” she said to the sweets seller, who stood stupefied. At Batya’s feet, the youngster writhed and groaned.